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He had a quiver in his voice. His face angled slightly downwards as he looked up at me over the register. He was probably my height if he stood up straight. He was wearing a thin T-shirt, slightly old and slightly dirty. I could see his stubble above his upper lip, just under where his nose sits. He was shaven but not cleanly. As if his razor this morning wasn’t sharp. I concentrated on his lips as he spoke.

He ordered a skim cappucino and a decaf long black with three shots. My heart melted as I heard the humility and softness of his voice. I couldn’t help but be compassionate towards him. He didn’t look homeless or anything, just humble, living out the remaining days of his life. He’s probably retired and probably did some small insignificant job to pay the bills; a mechanic perhaps? A plumber? A smalltime tradesman? I asked him for his name. Michael he said, and proceeded to spell it out. My heart already soft with compassion pretended it was a hard name to spell and wrote my most perfect handwriting on the cup.

I made his drink and served it on the bar. I called his name once or twice and looked over to where he was seated. He was with someone.

She had a smaller eye than the other, an accurate guess puts her as having had a stroke. A sister maybe? Or wife? Maybe the decaf Americano was for her. She had wild silver untamed hair and smiled a little, half her face not cooperating. He finally came and got his drink and without a word ushered back to his seat. The next time he came around, he asked for sugars, I pointed him to the right direction and he complied. No fuss, no dramas. Just did as he was asked. No rebellion, no fire in his eyes, a man retired to his fate.